You And I Go Hard Like We're Going To War
by MissPoisonedAddiction1
Summary: Jake and Bella don't function like they used to. They used to keep score of the fights, make promises to start becoming a better significant other but then she's throwing dishes and he's calling her a bitch. It always ends with a bang. RATED M FOR LEMONY LEMONS AND CURSIES!


**You And I Go Hard At Each Other Like We're Going To War**

_Suggested song in which you should love as much as J and B _

_Maroon 5 – One More Night_

_Inspired me to write this. **HEADS UP!** Smutt! Lemony lemons! Angry!Sex! Don't say I didn't warn you._

* * *

**I'm patient enough** to know my husband is not coming home at seven on the dot for dinner. Hell, I'm old enough (twenty four thank you) therefore not naïve enough to know it's not work that keeps him back late, but rather a bar. Or a pack meeting. Or something—someone—else.

All depends on what fight we have that morning.

I'd stopped keeping track of each fight but rather which fight ended with one of us slamming the door. Most of the time, it was Jake.

He won't say it, but he doesn't want to stay behind because his wolf might get too riled up and I'll be where Emily is—housewife, bored and finding new ways to cover up my scars.

That reminds me, make lunch date with Em tomorrow.

* * *

I look up from my cup of coffee, see him making his way toward the door and feel that familiar angry scowl come to my face.

"Yeah, see you after work. Love you, too," I mutter but he picks up on it, lets go of the door handle to turn and give me a tired look. Being Alpha is tiring, but apparently saying goodbye to your wife is exhausting.

"Really? You want to do this now?"

"I'm not allowed to have a goodbye?" I shoot back with a cocked eyebrow. He wanted to play dumb, he was going to win the game hands down.

He clenches his fists and jaw at the same moment and he closes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose with a finger and thumb.

"Can we save this for later, I have a work shop to get to..."

"Yes, and plenty of paying customers for you to fix their engines or air belts—

"Fan belts"

"Whatever. It would be nice if I could get some communication from you is all."

"Oh fuck me," he growls and drops his bag on the floor.

"You want communication? Go for it, I'm all ears."

He purposefully scrapes the chairs legs against the linen and I grit my teeth—he knows how much I hate that because it scratches the damn floor and then I have to buy a cheap ugly rug to cover up all the dents and—

"No. Go ahead. I'll be here cleaning and unclogging the damn drain seeing as you can't be bothered—

"I told you I'd fix it,"

"You said last week. You didn't even try to—

"Could you give me a break? It's not like you pull any money in—

"You know I'm down to a pretty penny from my saved funds, you jerk, if you hadn't ordered that stupid four wheeler part—

"It's a quad bike, Jesus..."

"Then we wouldn't be in this mess."

By now our noses are nearly touching and I can smell toothpaste on his breath and see the undiluted anger in his eyes.

I sit back, fold my arms.

"Get out."

"Fine. See you after work, bit—_babe_."

"Can't wait, jer—_honey_."

The sound of scraping against the linen, him picking his bag up with enough force that it swings and knocks a dent into the wall and then he's gone, the resounding bang of the slamming door like a gunshot.

I calmly stand, go to the sink, and scrub every last dish until my wrists ache.

* * *

I look at the clock, candles flickering in the small kitchen, roast chicken—with vegetables, of course—going cold on old china plates Renee got from a flea market and gave to me last Christmas. It keeps ticking, mocking me as if to say "you really thought he'd come and everything would be all rainbows and unicorns? Face it, he's finished work and staying at Pauls to play some Call of Duty. Either that or bend some girl over the mustangs hood."

Maybe not, but still, the thought is agrivating and I push my chair back—scrape and all—and start putting dinner into Tupperware containers, sticking them in the fridge when really I should get a dog just so Jake can come home late and watch Scooby eat the whole thing.

* * *

The door opens with a bang at nine and I'm curled up on the recliner, lights off, waiting. Just like the cliché says.

I can already tell he's been to Pauls, if the change of clothes and wet hair is any consultation and it hurts that he can't even take a shower here because the drain is still clogged. I haven't had a shower in a full day and have to fill the bath tub instead and empty it via jug.

He puts the key in the dish from Ikea, hangs his jacket up on the hook, puts his bag near his worn sneakers and slips off his boots. His unzipped bag of necessities is open and I can see the clothes he'd worn before.

I flick the light on.

He must have not expected me to be there, or even heard my heartbeat, because he turns with a look I can only describe as shocked.

There's a heavy silence.

"Hey," he murmurs, rubs the back of his neck but doesn't make another move.

Something warm and expensive wraps around me in the living room and I recognise it almost instantly.

Perfume.

Sweet Sandalwood.

For her.

The glow of the light must show my expression because he stills, as if not moving will save him from the storm that's just hit.

I rise from the chair, walk over to him casually. I crane my neck to see the almost gone lipstick smudge—he must have forgotten to check there before he left in a hurry.

"What's this?" I gesture, voice oddly quiet. The smell of perfume is wafting up from the bag on the floor.

For a moment, I'm reminded of my mother and how she never raised her voice during a fight with Charlie, how she just stared, voice soft.

I'm definitely Renee's daughter.

He swallows thickly. Pauses.

Opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then finally "...it didn't mean anything..."

His doesn't have to say "I just needed this." It's in his eyes. For a moment, I'm completely broken, the hole in my chest ripping open and all of this can't be normal for a person who is only five foot seven, but holy crow does it hurt. Then comes the anger. I shake, no, I tremble. My knees go weak. My eyes water with rage.

But I don't say anything.

Then, as if I'm being possessed I go to the kitchen and am glad to hear his light footfalls behind me, hear him drawing breath and muttering "Bells, wait," but I don't have time to because this thing inside me is mad.

I throw the fine china at his head and miss by a mile.

"You."

I throw the next one in the rack. He ducks and it breaks into tiny pieces behind where he was.

"Absolute."

A coffee mug with a kitten on it, from Jessica when we moved just barely grazes his hair.

"Asshole!"

This time, I use both hands, grabbing whatever and he's already cursing and ducking his head, crying "Jesus, what the fuck, Bella, wait!"

But this thing inside me won't and I've run out of dishes. I throw forks and spoons instead, wishing I hadn't washed the big carving knife before when the cooking was done so I could throw it at his head, too.

He grabs my wrists and I drop the spatula, kicking at him and screaming like a banshee.

"How could you! You stupid rotten mutt, I hate you, I hate you!"

"I hate you! God, you're always on my case and all I ever do is work and you don't even want to fuck anymore—

We're both screaming at each other but then after a moment, we're fighting for breath and his grip is so tight it hurts.

"Get. Out. I don't want to see your damn face around here anymore you filthy cheating abusing dog!"

He freezes, lip curling in a snarl and his eyes blaze so much fire—so much life—that I can feel my breathing catch in my chest.

"You want me out? Fine."

Then he lets me go, storms upstairs and I fall to the floor and cry because it hurts so damn much that he could hurt me like this, that he couldn't just tell me, that we don't work—it's not easy as breathing.

It's as suffocating as choking on a _pea_.

* * *

I stare at the plate in front of me, Emily's famous blueberry muffin untouched. She gives me worried glances among the mass of wolves, rubbing a tender hand over her baby bump and I shouldn't be here but I insisted that we have lunch. The brat pack came back somewhere in the middle of me crying and made it their personal mission to make me cry harder by asking "what's wrong, Bella bean?" with that tone that just about killed me. They couldn't have known I hurt this much.

Basically after the sob fest slowed they were trying to make me smile or laugh by shoving food down their throats with vigour.

It hasn't worked so far.

"Alright, that's it—Get the hell out of my kitchen! God, you boys are going to send me bankrupt, I swear..."

Then she pulls out the big wooden spoon and the sounds of whimpers and yelps echoes in the house. What is wrong with the muffin? What does she use again... self raising flower? Something different.

Then it's quiet.

I finally look up. That spoon must be magic because it feels like they weren't even here to begin with. She sets a cup of coffee in front of me and gives me that half smile.

"Sorry. But you were saying?"

"I'm... I have no dishes."

I go home with a box in the back-seat of big plates, cups, bowels and cutlery.

I promised I'd pay her back but she told me "don't worry about it. When this baby is finally out, I'm going to need someone to feed the wolves."

* * *

It's been three days and still no word. I'm kind of glad, but at the same time I'm utterly broken. Every surface has been cleaned three times, the vacuum is ready to die and the mop is broken so I had to use duct tape so I could at least finish the job. The bin is overflowing with broken dishes.

I sit there at the kitchen table, not sure what to do with myself. Or with Jacob.

I finally must up the courage to call Jessica, a firm lawyer in New York and one of my few but many friends.

"Hey, girl, what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering how I should go about getting a divorce..."

* * *

The door, as always, opens with a bang and I jump.

I had expected a phone call. Maybe a white flag. A party of 'I give up, too'.

Jake stands there, fists clenched around a cream piece of paper and I swallow because that's the divorce papers and Jessica printed them out and sent them and that paper probably cost more than a box of A4 sheets. He growls lowly, thrusts the paper into my face.

"What. Is _this_?"

I give him a dry look, cock an eyebrow.

"Paper?"

"What the fuck Bella?" he shouts, shaking.

"I'm just finalising something that was finished a long time ago, Jake," I say calmly and turn to go back to folding the washing on the couch but he grabs my arm, turns me.

"No."

"No?" I repeat.

"You will never," he snarls, bending down so he can look—glare—into my eyes. "Find someone like me—

At my scoff, his grip tightens and I squeak, trying to pull away but he makes sure my eyes are on his.

"Someone who will put up with your shit. Or pick you up when you've fallen down in the middle of a fucking shopping centre, someone who will laugh like it's normal so people don't fucking laugh _at_ you because it makes him want to punch every one of those assholes,"

My eyes sting with tears and I go to push against him.

"Shut up, Jake," I barely manage to whisper.

"Someone who will wake up at three in the morning on a random night to find you screaming and hold you because they know what you've been through. Someone who thinks you're a god-damn bitch,"

"Shut _up_ Jake!" I scream, shoving at him but he ignores my attempts like I'm a fly batting against the window.

"But who fucking loves you anyway."

He leans in closer—if that's possible—and that fire I saw a few nights ago is back, only it's burning me and all I can feel and smell is Jake and he's looking at me like that first night we had a fight.

"Face it, Bella, you will never find someone like me. No one will give two shits about you."

I curse at him, struggle to get out of his hold so I can hit him or claw at his face because I hate him so damn much right now.

"No one," he snarls, grabbing both my wrists and all it takes is a shove before I'm backed against the living room wall, the light switch digging into my shoulder "will ever want you like I do."

And then he presses his lips to mine.

I bite his bottom lip hard in warning because I'm going to kick him between the legs if he doesn't back off and a growl vibrates in his chest as I break the kiss, fists clenched in his shirt. He presses against me, trapping my body to the wall and I wish I could kick him.

"I fucking _hate_ you," I swear and it feels so wrong and right that I don't even care that he's smirking.

"Yeah, I fucking hate you too," and then his fingers are under my shirt and it's laundry day so I'm not wearing a bra and he palms my breast roughly, smirking again like he knows. My cry is muffled by his lips as he takes his second inning, pressing a thigh between my legs and hoisting me up so he's pressed against me, right _there_.

I've never been so angry or turned on in my life and my cheeks warm with a blush.

He bites at my neck, and then I'm pulling at his jacket and he's tugging at my jeans and panties and shirt and I'm naked before his shirt even hits the floor.

"Hate you so much," he growls into my neck, fingers finding me wet and wanting.

I can feel him grinning and I hate that, too.

A moan escapes my lips as he slips two fingers inside of me, and curls just like he used to in the back of the truck when I was nineteen.

I bite at his neck because if he's marking me up, then I'm doing the same to him.

He groans, rubs his jean clad erection against my thigh and the scrape of the material reminds me of the linen briefly before I whimper, and grasp desperately at his shoulders as I lathe his neck with my tongue. Then he's pulling off his jeans and I cry out at the loss of contact but I'm still angry so I rake my nails over his back, hoping he feels the sting and he hisses between his teeth.

Then he's inside of me to the hilt, hot and throbbing and I throw my head back, sobbing his name.

His hips piston against mine roughly, skin to skin and burning, and the sounds our bodies make as we're pushing against one another is so erotic that I think I won't last long.

He grins, again, pulls all the way out only to sheath his cock with my wet sex in one fluid push.

A growl of my own sounds between us and I grip the back of his neck, grinding my hips and smirking when he falters. That's a sign I have him.

He doesn't like it, taking charge once more as he draws out the thrusting and jerking as long as possible. By now a thin sheen of sweat coats the inside of my thighs, under my breasts and I'm almost gliding over him as he pulses into me over and over again.

Supporting me with one arm, his hand disappears between us and I feel his thumb press to my clit. I cry out his name, cursing him, and he keeps pushing, every time his thumb moving a little harder.

Before long I'm moaning, long and loud and he's groaning my name into the crook of my neck.

"You..." he pants, slowly sliding to the floor and we're a mess of limps, my legs wrapped around him, back to the wall and fighting for breath. "you ever think of leaving me again?"

He looks up into my eyes.

"I'll fucking show you why you stay."

* * *

We sit on the kitchen floor, eating roast chicken and carrots out of Tupperware containers, sipping from plain white mugs filled with vodka and pomegranate juice.

We only made it here because his stomach growled and we haven't spoken a word since.

Halfway through a bite, Jake cups my face, looks concerned and I realise I'm crying with a start.

"I'm... I'm so sorry, Bells."

I swallow the chicken, chase it with a big mouthful of juice and vodka, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Who was she?"

He looks down, tugs on a seam of his denim pants, unbuttoned, unzipped, and hanging low on his hips. He runs a hand through his short unkempt hair.

"This new intern at the office next door to the shop. She quit," he hastens to soothe when a sob chokes me.

There's a long silence.

"What was her name?"

"Marie... I swear, Bells, she didn't mean anything..."

I shake my head, lower it so my hair hides my face. There's still a piece of fine china under the fridge that I can't get and it shines in the dim light from the hallway.

"Why did you... you know..."

He doesn't touch me and that hurts more then if he had.

"I don't know... We were at the bar after work, knocking back a few. And she was there, looking at me like... anyway... Paul was telling me if I tried anything stupid, that he'd cut me up in my sleep. And... he went home."

I bite my bottom lip.

"She asked me what I was doing there."

All I can imagine is him sliding off the ring, grinning at her and using that flirting playful tone.

She never stood a chance.

"I swear, Bells, it... it just happened. I regret ever walking out and slamming that door."

"For the thirty seventh time?"

He swallows thickly, brushes my hair out of my face, tilts my chin.

"What?"

"That night. That was the thirty seventh time you've slammed a door on me."

He mutters a breathy "oh" and then slowly, carefully, wraps his arm around me, pulling me to his lap and stroking my hair. I let him because I think if I didn't, I might just walk out and not come back.

For a while, we sit there not talking. The clock ticks. The fine china gleams.

I cry silently.

Then I notice a scar. New. Pink.

Right along his wrist with two others on either side it.

He notices my look, gives a wry kind of smile.

"Paul didn't cut me in my sleep when I went over, but on patrol he got a bite or two in."

It baffled me because he was an alpha and nobody—or wolf—bit him unless it was for a good cause or a challenge.

"I deserved it."

I know it's pointless, but I do it because it feels right. Right has been gone for a while now.

I rip the bottom of my shirt after two feeble attempts, wrap it around his wrist and tie it in a messy bow.

He presses a kiss to my temple and I lean my head against his chest.

The clock mocks me on it's wall, saying "you've got a long way to go before you guys can function again. Think you can handle it?"

I know this. I've known it since the first fight a day after our honeymoon.

But like on my wedding day, in response to the clocks nasty lashings, I say aloud "_I do_."

* * *

_Believe it or not, I didn't want a fluffy ending. But somehow it happened. Now I know what you're thinking, if you see fics like this and you adore Jake as much as I do-**"He would never!" **_

_But darlings, he's been a married man since he was 18 (legal age in my country) and they've had nothing but fights since then. That means no smecksytimes. No cuddles. Just constant tip of the hat "see you, ma'am" and the good old dose of housewife. _

_In short, marriage is hard work. But working together is difficult. For these two, anyway._

_Hope you enjoyed, am pondering on making a second chapter._

_As for _How To Live With Werewolves_, I'm stuck on a certain bit but will update it sometime during this month_ (this century, I hope) _and see what happens._


End file.
